


i pity the grasshopper

by guanxi



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Animals, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Established Relationship, Falling In Love, Insects, Kissing, Lots of kissing, M/M, Nature, Plants, Slice of Life, Stream of Consciousness, Thanks, Trees, i worked hard pls appreciate, i'm just adding a million tags so that SOMEONE reads it, or maybe it could be straight if you want lmao, prose, this piece makes no goddamn sense, virginia woolf-esque
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-06 01:51:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12806988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guanxi/pseuds/guanxi
Summary: i am vaster than the sky above me.i thrum with the fibrous light of vitality.i am the earth and everything below.





	i pity the grasshopper

**Author's Note:**

> this is cross-posted on wattpad !! this wasn't initially supposed to be fanfiction, so it can be read as just general prose in second person. i hope you enjoy!!

A fine light casts its beam through the smudged glass of the window beside your bed. A glorious kaleidoscope of faded colour settles upon the bedsheets; a soft beige on the uppermost right corner, a faint canary below it. The weather outside is rather mild and pleasant; the trees hum softly in the early July light. They unfurl their brilliant leaves and unloosen the energy pent up inside of them as the heat seeps ever deeper. You watch the vivid grasshopper that nestles itself between blades of grass underneath the backwoods.

This grasshopper, he is not quite like anything you have ever seen. A stream of an eccentric red laces the head of the insect, much like a piece of string suspended between the knots of a shoe. The outermost curve of his frail little wings bellow cerulean, though they dance almost purple under the yellow glow. He buzzes with a potential so vital that it cages your breath within your lungs. It astounds you. You find yourself folding a crease on the edge of your book, long forgotten. The curious grasshopper has managed to capture your eye.

The grasshopper makes the strangest of sounds, so loud and frenzied that the noise drifts easily in the summer breeze to the shell of your ear. Perhaps you are hearing things, and have finally severed the remaining threads of sanity, but you swear that the murmur deepens, as though something joins the harmony that the grasshopper has created. Maybe it was the deep-bellied song of a bird high above you. It could even be the melody earth itself excretes as it arouses from its slumber. But what had it unweave the last shreds of its trancelike dream?

Your eyes settle back onto the pitiful grasshopper. So frail, so easily crushed underfoot. His minuscule life, so effortlessly altered and transformed, for better or for worse. Yet look at how unbothered he was by such a notion! It did not matter to him that his lifeline grew thinner as the hour grew longer; he lives life with the same energy that had been bestowed to him at birth; carefree and uncomplicated. You loathe his simple existence.

The door cracks on its hinges behind you, effectively disconnecting you from your train of thought. Your eyes unfasten from their position on the grasshopper, and you turn to see who has come in. The sight of warm, wavy hair and endless ebony skin is unexpected, though certainly welcome. You had been apprehending an empty house for a much lengthier stretch of time. There is a fantastic little buzz of intensity, pure and elevated, underneath your skin. The itch deepens with every step he takes towards you. You meet him halfway, wrap strong arms around dark, bare shoulders.

And when you two are this close, almost nose to nose, forehead to forehead, breaths soft and bearing a hint of ivy-blossom and ripe fruit, who can blame you for losing your head? He leans forward, a silent  _may I_? You cannot say no, never have. Even if you were to try, it is already too late. A laugh, as weightless and airy as a bird's feather, skims over your open mouth.

You instinctively breathe in, as if settling into the bottom of a creek. In the darkness, your senses seem to strengthen, create a pull, an atmosphere you are unaware of. Faintly, you hear the rustle of the single grasshopper outside. It is entirely possible that the grasshopper has been joined by others, and their restless declarations whisper and melt along with the other sounds of nature. You can hear, ever so faintly, a narrow hand sliding over fabric. You can sense him coming closer, closer, closer.

The first brush of your lips against his is light, astonishingly soft, and unfortunately anticlimactic. You open your eyes. Look him over. His eyelashes are still shadowing the apples of his cheeks, his pupils hidden. He brings his hand up, fingers impossibly brief on your cheek, and runs his thumb over the upturned corner of your mouth. You feel it open. Your lips, just slightly parted.

Your eyes have stuttered to a close once more, but you can sense his approach as he tilts his head and kisses your bottom lip, lingering just long enough for you to hesitantly follow the motion.

It is not unfathomable that the grasshopper, the trees, the earth, and even the sky above have entrusted you with their existence, given you that insurmountable string of exuberance and vitality, because you feel a tiny spark somewhere in your belly.

He comes again, now fitting your upper lip between his own. You echo him, gaining a sense of confidence and assurance. This new fibre of life inside of your stomach glimmers, thickens, spreads. There is now a tingle in your neck, deep colour spotting your cheeks and darkening your eyelids.

You feel him breathe out, and you know that he is smiling. There is a hint of a flow, a glide, when the inside of your lip meets his, dampening. The light contact, slick though not entirely unpleasant, provokes something ardent and hot in you. He pulls away to shift his position, folding both legs underneath him, and you move with him, unable to overlook your uninterrupted closeness. His hand slides back up the arch of your neck, pulling you forward, leaning in to press a barely-there kiss to your throat, a touch so brief yet exhilarating that the breath gets knocked out of you. You are not quite sure how your fingers have managed to place themselves in his hair, but you like the feel of the strands between your fingertips, how they seem to stream and fluctuate.

You travel through the tunnels that litter your mind, take a right turn and then two lefts, switch off the single persistent voice that is telling you to stop. His lips are fluid, dynamic. With each nip and lick, it feels like your stomach is deliberately swooping, lifting, hollowing in. The absurd and inconceivable energy of the world feels unusually real and true—you wouldn't believe it otherwise. The room soon fills with your sounds—minute and plush and slippery, lips meeting and parting.

There is an unmistakable twist, or some kind of flutter, inside you. He draws close and kisses you, as carefully as the first time, but now you feel a dash of wetness over your lip. It is practically enough to make you startle, even though you were expecting it. He gives you two terse kisses and then licks up, over the underside of your upper lip. It takes a moment, as if you are stunned by the way your nerve endings light up, but then you meet him, tongues brushing together lightly, sunny and glossy and alive.

He pauses, turning away for a second. In the breadth of the same instant he's back, grinning, and your mouth curls up, too. Your lips find each other again, easily. He is tilting his head and licking into your mouth, and you feel your gut grow tepid and swirl with impassable passion. Your skin is alight, sensitive and goose fleshed, as is his. You run a hand up his arm, without even thinking about it, coming to rest at his neck. Your fingernails scratch at the coarse baby hairs, coiling splendidly over and under your hands. He hums, halting yet deep in the back of his throat, when you catch the tip of his tongue between your lips, sucking softly for a moment.

You're on your back now, the bedsheets silken and unbearably supple under your arms and the base of your spine. There is a sheen on your lips, and your eyes are lazy and half-lidded, too careless to stay open. From here, you can still catch a glimpse past the windowpane, at the blue, blue sky and the bushes that fringe the bottom's edge. With a distinct focus, you can very nearly decipher the particular whistle of the grasshopper, though he's no longer in a position to be seen.


End file.
